


If heaven seems far away

by dotfic



Series: The Ketchup 'verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathtub Sex, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:46:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9355838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: Oblivion was a long time, longer than all the millennia Castiel had seen since creation, and there was no light there at all. If there was an opposite for it, it was this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to inplayruns for the beta. Part of the ketchup ‘verse, which diverges from canon late in S10. 
> 
> Inspired by this fanart by Kiddo-W http://kiddo-w.deviantart.com/art/Deasiel-438034578

Being an angel (even now, with his grace at a low ebb), Castiel hadn’t given much thought to his own mortality. He gave thought to sacrifice he might have to make for the greater good, and to the fragility of the lives of others, of humans, particular the Winchesters, who despite their astounding resilience and sturdiness, bled far too easily. 

However, a simple fact-finding mission gone awry — another angel with a grudge arriving at the same antique store where Cas believed the ordinary-looking pewter cup they needed was located — proved yet again that things never stayed the same. His own preconceived notions, even about himself, only looked like stones, but they were clay after all, constantly re-forming and re-shaping into something new. 

In the musty back room of the shop, beyond a thick velvet curtain divider and under the shadow of the staircase, with the sharp point of Pahaliah’s angel blade pressing into the soft flesh of his neck, the clay re-shaped. Having to fight another angel was hardly a new situation for him, but many things were different now.

“Traitor,” the angel whispered into Castiel’s ear. 

Despite being a clumsier, slower fighter than Castiel, Pahaliah’s vessel was heavier than Castiel’s human body, and he’d managed to get Castiel’s arms pinned behind him.

It was the intensity of the hissed word, the ferocity of the anger and resentment behind it, that made Castiel suddenly think of oblivion. Of where his grace, his consciousness, would go if he didn’t survive this, all he would leave behind. The tip of the blade pushed closer, drawing blood, and then Pahaliah pulled it away, arm tensing, to plunge it into Castiel’s neck.

The shop owner chose that moment to go to the back room; her footsteps and startled gasp broke what felt like a spell over the both of them. Castiel wrenched his arms free, spun around, and flung Pahaliah back against the wall with a slight burst of grace he couldn’t really afford to use for this, but did anyway.

“Run,” he told the woman, who immediately took his advice, vanishing back through the velvet curtain.

He couldn’t leave without the cup, angel with a grudge or not. Pahaliah came at him again as Castiel bent, not taking his eyes off his opponent, and picked up his own blade, twirling it in his fingers into the grip he liked best. 

They circled each other, the old wooden boards creaking under their feet.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel muttered, as he stabbed Pahaliah in the chest, and grace light burst outward. He’d said that too many times, to too many angels. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

* * *

The small truck Sam and Dean had procured for him (how, Castiel knew better than to ask) handled easily. He stopped when he was close to home to pick up burgers and fries, enough for all of them to have seconds if they wanted it. Although Castiel still didn’t necessarily need to eat, more and more often he found that his energy faltered more quickly if he didn’t.

No one was in the library or at the war table when he got back the bunker, his feet tapping too noisily in the quiet on the metal stairs, bags of food in one hand, pewter cup stowed in the knapsack slung over his shoulder.

They all came and went as they needed to—Dean, Sam, Castiel, Kevin, sometimes Charlie too—and Castiel usually didn’t question it. But today—that day, an odd lump of dread formed in his stomach, until he noticed the note propped against the lamp on the library table.

“WENT WITH KEVIN TO CHECK ON A LEAD. BE BACK AROUND 10 PM. -SAM”

Castiel put two of the bags into the fridge so Sam and Kevin would have something to eat when they got back. Taking the other bag of food, along with the one holding the cup, he went looking for Dean.

The thump of rock music, fast repetitive notes that burst into piano and guitar, wafted faintly down the corridors of the bunker towards him. The driving beat grew louder as he followed the trail of sound — “Baba O’Riley” by The Who, Castiel’s jumbled mental catalogue of pop culture, put into his mind by Metatron, recalled.

Just off the showers was a small room with the bunker’s one and only bathtub, which was quite large as far as bathtubs went, from what Castiel had seen in the houses of the humans they tried to save from hauntings or curses. 

“Dean?” Castiel called out, hesitating outside the shower room.

“In here,” Dean bellowed, voice echoing because of the wall tiles, nearly inaudible over the vocals of the song.

Castiel went into the bathtub room and set the bags of burgers and fries down on a small wooden stool. On the floor next to it, boots with dirt crusted on their treads, jeans, t-shirt, and a flannel shirt lay heaped in a careless pile. There were dark stains on the shirt—dried blood. A flood of alarm raced through Castiel.

“Dean, are you all right?” he asked sharply.

“Yeah,” Dean said, reclining in the tub, completely naked. “A couple of those orc things ambushed me and Sam and Kevin.” He glanced up and noticed something in Castle’s expression. “That’s orc’s blood, not mine,” he added quickly.

“Good,” said Castiel.

“Is that cheeseburgers?” Dean, who’d been reclining, sat up. “Did you get the cup?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, unable to stop staring at the drops of water sliding down Dean’s shoulders and his chest, the way his freckles stood out so starkly, the way his hair stuck up in wet spikes. 

Dean leaned back, letting out a long slow breath of relief. “Well, it isn’t the Death Star plans, but it’ll still give us an edge against those things. Sam and Kevin went off to hunt down a book—there’s a spell that goes with the cup, according to the archives.” 

The song on the old boom box burst into something that sounded like violins then ended sharply, followed by a click as the cassette ended. (Despite Sam’s urging, Dean had not yet embraced the wonders of digitized music). The room dropped into silence broken by the swish of water as Dean shifted to a more comfortable position in the tub.

The scent of french fries and burgers and soap mingled in Castiel’s nose as he just stood there, caught by the curve of muscles, the lines of Dean’s arm along the edge of the tub, the fine hairs standing up, the tiny goosebumps. Dean seemed to notice Castiel’s staring, licked his lips, and glanced over at him.

“Uh…Cas, you okay?”

The memory of the angel blade pushing cold against his neck distracted him from the swell of desire in his dress slacks. 

“Yes,” Castiel said staunchly, lowering the knapsack to the floor. The cup inside made a soft _clank._

But Dean turned and looked at him. “Okay, are you going to tell me what happened?”

“No,” Castiel said, more bluntly than he’d meant to sound. 

He stood there, trying not to stare at Dean.

“C’mere,” Dean said, his voice gone soft.

What else could Castiel do but obey. He went over to the tub, and Dean reached up and caught Castiel’s dry hand in his damp fingers; it was almost like grace, the charge that rippled up through him at that touch. He twined his fingers with Dean’s, crouched down, and Dean leaned up to meet the kiss.

Oblivion was a long time, longer than all the millennia Castiel had seen since creation, and there was no light there at all. If there was an opposite for it, it was this.

He cradled Dean’s face in his hands, kissing him harder, pressing in with his tongue, needing to be closer. Never mind he was still wearing his trenchcoat and suit and shoes. Castiel stepped into the tub, sloshing water over the rim as he lowered himself onto Dean.

Dean let out an amusingly startled squeak, and then Castiel felt him laughing, grinning against Castiel’s skin. “Cas, what’re you doing, you cr—“ But whatever else he was going to say was swallowed up by another kiss.

Water spilled over onto the floor, but all that mattered now was the damp warmth of Dean’s skin under his hands, the weight of the water weighing his own clothes, how hard he was. While his approach to sex wasn’t the same as Dean’s, at times the feelings and heat under the skin of this human shell acted as their own insistent pulse, and could be very heady indeed. At times, they also acted as a way to drive off fears he didn’t understand fully—a solace Castiel suspected Dean sometimes took from sex as well. 

The memory of the blade intruded again, and that anger-powered whisper hissed in his ear made Castiel pause a moment, water drenching his clothes, relishing the feel of Dean’s body beneath his own. He swallowed, trying to catch his breath, steady his hands.

“Hey,” Dean said, gripping Castiel’s shoulders, gently turning him so he settled deeper into the water with his back resting against Dean’s chest. The hem of the trenchcoat floated up. “It’s ok,” Dean said, breath in Castiel’s ear, “I’ve got you.” He pulled Castiel’s tie free, throwing it onto the floor, before he unbuttoned Castiel’s shirt. Dean slid his hand down over Castiel’s chest, over the now bare wet skin. He unbuckled his belt, unfastened his slacks. “I’ve got you.”

In retrospect, Castiel thought it would’ve been wiser to divest himself of his clothing before climbing into the bathtub. For one thing, he could move more easily. For another, there wouldn’t be all these layers of cloth between his skin and Dean’s. But it was far too late for such a minor regret now. As Dean’s fingers curved around Castiel’s cock, Castiel turned his head, arching his neck so he could kiss Dean. He moaned into his mouth and slid himself down against Dean, feeling Dean’s now-increasing hardness against him. It was extremely satisfying that he could make Dean lose his concentration this way, make him hitch his breath in his chest, and falter in the rhythm of his hand on Castiel.

Castiel repeated the motion, and Dean quickened his hand, as their tongues slid together, seeking entry farther in. More water sloshed over the edge of the tub. The scent of fries and burgers was gone, all there was now was soap and _Dean_ and water. 

He’d learned to process the sensory overload his grace gave him, to differentiate between things he wanted to notice at the molecular level and things he needed to draw back from and experience as a whole and savor. The water was molecules but Dean wasn’t, Dean was freckles and skin and finger-tips wrinkled with moisture. He was deeply familiar, yet constantly a discovery.

Gasping as Dean’s fingers continued their relentless work on him, Castiel pushed his own body down harder until Dean groaned. He thrust his hips upward, into Dean’s hand, then pushed back against Dean again. They both made noises that echoed off the tiles, sounds that surely were carrying through the entire bunker ventilation system. It was fortunate Sam and Kevin were still out on their job.

Dean’s mouth and tongue went to the side of Castiel’s neck, and that just made everything even worse, as Dean licked and nipped at Castiel’s skin. Their movements grew more frantic together, as Castiel reached up to cradle the back of Dean’s head, threading his fingers into his short-cropped hair. Cheating a little with his grace to ease things for Dean, Castiel maneuvered his body to draw Dean’s cock inside of him, making Dean cry out. 

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Dean muttered, his mouth against Castiel’s skin.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Castiel gasped back. Dean gave a soft whuff of laughter before he groaned again as Castiel lowered himself down further, pushing Dean deeper in. 

Dean’s fingers flicked over the head of Castiel’s cock, then resumed their hard, steady strokes, while his other hand gripped the edge of the tub, nearly white-knuckled, and Castiel put his hand over Dean’s. He was so close, so close, and it felt so good having Dean inside of him, his hands on him. It was immediate and pleasurable and messy and real, driving back thoughts about oblivion like shadows shrinking from light. He came with a wordless shout that echoed off the tiles, then felt Dean shudder and come too, gasping out _Cas_. He wasn’t sure which he liked better, when Dean sometimes cried out his full name, or when it was the diminutive, the nickname Dean had given him and spoke, in his various moods, like no one else ever did.

Sliding off Dean, Castiel settled back into the water, leaning against him, while Dean’s arms circled around. They sat like that, soaking wet and still breathing hard. Oblivion was a long way off.

**Author's Note:**

> Title by Civil Twilight


End file.
